


Eighty-Seven

by confiscatedretina



Category: Five Nights at Freddy's
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:00:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2243364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confiscatedretina/pseuds/confiscatedretina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Listen close: the startling shriek sounds like children screaming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eighty-Seven

An old wire fan hums, pushing stagnant air across desultory skin. Papers rustle and it feels like eyes are watching from every shadow. A headache throbs, just between the eyes, and something hums an almost-familiar song through a dark, lonely corridor.

Eyes that seem almost alive blink in the shadows and a door slams shut with the ghost of rattled nerves. Camera flick, static screen, a hint of motion indicated by a new pose. Teeth chatter by legs that feel nonexistent.

Time is running out, ebbing away like blood from a bone-deep wound. It oozes like thoughtless fats through a hole, gaping just above the eye sockets. It's almost a memory and the headache grows.

Whispers and garbled, thick words fill the gaps where memory should be. Soon, now, soon.

Five nights, each more tedious, more urgent. This rotting office will be empty one way or another. It remains but to wait. One slip of the finger, one misuse of limited resources. The clock reads 5:52am.

Sometimes there is a sort of escape. Vague memory of a sum: $120.50 for a week won. Every now and then, even a rectangle in pink granting passage away. Mostly it's screaming and pain and eyes that can still see into a stained darkness.

All light and sound dies with a groan. Wait. Which one this time? Or will there be some luck? Does it matter?

Freddy appears at the door, eyes blinking to a merry tune, flickers of light to make grotesque shapes of the familiar in darkness. The strike is quick and the scream so very, very known...

And it dissolves, for an instant that lasts eternity, into something that makes a terrible, sad amount of sense.

“Oh my god!”

“Get outside, go! Hurry!”

Children screaming. A woman sobbing. Someone vomiting just out of sight.

The world burns into eyes that cannot close. Colors, lights, all flash and swirl overhead. A splash of red in one dry cornea discolors the ceiling bulbs hideously, making their brightness a smeared pink. A headache throbs, just between the eyes, so bright and shrill it's a miracle there is any sight at all. A grim, blurry face hovers into view.

“Shit,” it's mouth moves. “Okay, everyone clear the way!”

A different voice: “God damn, how is this poor fucker still alive?” 

Good question.

Pain muffles everything. The light dims, the world grows soft at the edges until all that's left is a little pink rectangle. Words in crabbed script insert themselves into the memory once again: fired for tampering. Marvelous. The body feels weightless, so light as to be nonexistent.

An old wire fan begins to hum, pushing stagnant air across desultory skin. The phone rings and, for just a moment, it almost sounds like a siren wailing. But no, the voice starts up and there is a job to be done, one that is new but feels oh so very familiar somehow. A headache throbs, just between the eyes...

**Author's Note:**

> The perfect score to this is the sound of Jupiter humming to itself in the vast dark. I shan't explain a thing, but I'd love to know if this made sense to anyone else.


End file.
